Familiar in the unfamiliar

Weather-wise I think we can forget the past week but at least the wind has finally dropped. The Marin is not a gentle breeze to put it mildly; miraculously the serre stayed put – my neighbours’ blew away the last time it came through. Still, there’s a plus side to staying indoors – I’ve been lucky enough to have Callum to myself and had time to focus on what Denis calls ‘my micro enterprise‘. It’s a new career path but you’re never too old to change direction. The downstairs bedroom that kept Mumo comfortable has become my storage unit because there’s a leak in the garage roof and it’s too wet for Cal to get up there and fix it. Mind you, we did have a dry day yesterday which allowed me to clear the potager so we can start planting the summer salad stuff – I’ve put my foot down about spring onions though, we had so many last year the freezer still has bags of them in its depths.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss Mumo, especially to talk to but I have my son who apart from being brutally honest at times, is an amazing listener. One such conversation last weekend brought up the subject of my drinking. Too much he told me; he remembered I’d done the same thing after his dad died and it left him traumatised. I know, a 59 year old woman taking advice from a 26 year old but then he has Tony’s sensible calm genes – albeit in our son’s words he has his mother’s crazy ones too. So apart from a humdinger of a night with friends Bruce and Suzy up the road yesterday, I’ve stuck to sobriety and feel much better for it. That is except for the broken sleep due to the amount of water consumed. My counsellor is off to London tomorrow although just for the day – a health certificate is needed for his visa back to Oz. I don’t think tuberculosis is running rife down here but hey. As much as I love him, he needs to go back to his familiar and I know he misses his friends.

Getting back to normality hasn’t been all that difficult although I have added a few other changes to my repertoire so to speak. I went over to the library in St-Hilaire on Friday before stopping by for tea with one of Mumo’s good friends. I’ve only ever visited Didier’s little book nook once but I promised him after the funeral that I would pop in. His library by the way is one of the two that will receive the donations many of you very generously made on behalf of our mum. Anyway, I came away with a couple of tomes all about French history, in French, which are now glaring at me over the kitchen island. I can’t remember the last time I was given a library card but I didn’t want to leave empty-handed and Didier waved the 5 euro subscription charge. Driving back home that afternoon, I stopped to take a photo of the Pyrenees – I must have taken a hundred snaps of the impressive mountain range over the years but the familiarity of the view was somehow settling.

And I am beginning to feel more settled. Since Mumo’s cancer diagnosis last Autumn, life has been anything but, yet experience teaches us about how we choose to deal with the afterwards. Put the bottle away for starters. I’m lucky enough to live on this beautiful property in South-West France surrounded by nature, have the chance to try my hand at something new and for now, my son next door. April is just around the corner and what the wind didn’t get, is covering the trees in colour. It’s still peeing down out there so the woofers are slouched inelegantly across sofas, considering their former residence was in London they are awfully picky about the weather and I’m writing this here blog. Familiarity is a great therapist…

“Familiarity breeds content” (Stephen Sondheim)

the calm of Callum (mine’s the cup of tea)

Order of service

And so it was that we said our goodbyes to Mumo as we laid her to rest on Tuesday afternoon. The weather forecast had predicted rain but the sun came out instead which was a blessing in itself as the crematorium was running half an hour late so we all had to stand outside. Nobody seemed to mind, keeping to schedule is not the norm in this part of the world, friends and family chatting away amongst themselves until the doors finally opened and in we went. I’d picked some flowers from the garden which I placed on her coffin – a bit of a haywire bouquet as the March winds had blown off the best blossoms.

Like most services of this kind, it was short – we’d only been given half an hour so brother Simon and cousin Robert had practised the running down to the nth minute. Robert, a vicar in Wales and Mumo’s only nephew led the proceedings, our mum was not particularly religious but Rob knew her well and is a seasoned professional at these sorts of events. The night before he’d regaled us with stories as we sat round the family dinner table – the one about gangsta rap being played as the final request sending the lot of us into uncontrollable laughter. That and his choice of footwear on the day itself. Simon’s eulogy reminded us of what an incredible life our mum had had, his son Louis standing at his side translating the words into French. I’d had the forethought to ask Louis and Katie (Simon’s daughter) to print out the français version the night before even if they did change some of the text – nuances they amused. And I managed to get through my little speech dry-eyed; that was until I sat down next to Callum, looked over at my sister Bong and the sobbing started. Mercifully for the rest of the attendees we’d made to the end before the mascara ran and as we left the starkly beige auditorium, placing a kiss on her coffin, everyone was ready for a hug. And a very large drink back at chez nous with our friends.

Funerals are like weddings in a way, you spend so much time beforehand planning such events and then, bing, it’s all over. I wrote the same sentiment after Tony’s. Most of my siblings and their sprogs left the day after; Bong and her family back to New York, Katie back to London and Simon and Alba to Narbonne. They’ll all be back in June when we will scatter Mumo’s ashes next to Pop – the sun should be properly out by then. Luckily for me, I’ve still had company – Moth left yesterday as did Louis but Callum will be here a little longer. Just as well as we’ve needed to replace the entire sink unit in the main house as it broke mid-way through the after buffet – Denis came up trumps finding an almost perfect fit in the back of his garage. Having occupied myself with bits of furniture restoration, I’ve had to move the finished pieces into the room downstairs so Cal can get on with door frames and electric updating. Then there’s the pool deck to be sanded down and re-oiled before the new liner goes in, the potager needs to be turned over for the new season veggies and my back stairs need re-painting. Life will never be quite right without her but Mumo would be the first to say: dry your eyes, put on your boots and enjoy the sunrise…

I shall leave you with my ‘Letter to Mumo’ – the English version ahem..

“Classy, elegant, fun, always with a gentle smile your friends remember. A born diplomat, confidante, never one for an argument yet fascinatingly intelligent – you could recite quotes from literature off the top of your head and rarely failed to complete a crossword. You were the ultimate hostess, always making sure glasses were filled and tummies sated. Your family motto FHB (family hold back meant guests came first). Stunningly beautiful, you may have appeared fragile on the outside but that came with a spirit forged of steel.

To us, the Collinses, you were Mumo. Or Grandmummo. The voice of reason when you needed it most. Except when we were the cause of the trouble and then we’d best be running the opposite way. I once asked you why you never said “I love you” like other parents said to their kids. You replied, I shouldn’t have to, you should know I do. And we did. Despite living on opposite ends of the world, if there was a way to get home for Christmas, we did. To your home. Aude. First the magic of L’Horte, the house that you and Pop (along with various family hands) built and then Rouffiac – a place you said gave you peace. A place for family and friends, old and new to drop by and share an hour or two over a cup of tea.

I still look through the kitchen window when I come back from my morning run, expecting to see you on that damn stool sipping your coffee, a single muffin delicately sliced as you read the news on your Ipad. But you’re no longer there. But you are. You continue to live inside all of us; Simon has your love of books and your level headedness, Bong has your elegance and love of music, Moth has your patience the love of Kenya and wildlife, and for me I hope the steadfastness of friendship and a love of German Shepherds and rose gardens. And so much more is carried on through the next generation that you were so so proud of.
I will finish with a quote from one of her favourite Oscar Wilde plays – The Importance of Being Ernest
“ I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train”

A time best shared

I made a mattress cover. Sounds daft but I was ridiculously pleased with myself, mainly because I’d managed to use the sewing machine without breaking it. Okay so I did snap the needle mid-seam when it ran over a forgotten pin but using the dreaded contraption without Mumo’s guidance was a first. If I’m honest, life without her hasn’t sunk in yet – everything seems to be carrying on as normal even if it’s anything but. For most of last week, the only residents in the house were me and brother Simon; both of us busy sorting out funeral arrangements and legal stuff. It’s not as though the family home was constantly full of Collins; most of the time it was just Mumo and me but somehow the place echoes with emptiness. The arrival of nephew Louis and niece Kate this morning along with Cal who had been visiting his other grandmother, has however, helped lift the gloom and with the rest of the clan descending tomorrow, the coming days will be easier to bear.

Mumo used to say that she preferred her grand-children because her own kids always argued but when it came to family fortitude, us lot would always stick together. As we sat on Mumo’s bed last weekend, going through her bits of bling and mercifully tidy wardrobe, sister Bong and I reminisced over the pieces. We don’t often talk so sharing memories was a nice way to reconnect especially as she remembered far more than I me. I didn’t take much as I tend to lose jewellery on a regular basis but there was one pendant, a Cowrie (Mumo loved Cowrie shells), that I recall her wearing in Kenya.

Recollecting happier times has stretched further than the family bonds. Having been tasked with sending out emails and making phone calls to Mumo’s friends, everyone has had their own special memories of our mum. Right now, in the main house, Simon, Callum and Louis are poring of photographs for the service and there’s a lot of laughter added to the process. So much nostalgia held in those album pockets. I can’t say I haven’t cried, I’ve sobbed bucket loads – weirdly mostly when I’m doing the ironing but as long as I keep busy, I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m whizzing through my furniture renovations to the point where I’m going to have to find somewhere to put all of it so I can photograph my babies and sell them. The workshop keeps me calm – my safe space unless I’m running up those hills. And I finished the tableau for the signpost under the corner wall – my version of Spring. Mumo said I’d put just about every colour of the rainbow on canvas. Thankfully, Denis has encased it between two sheets of plastic because March so far is rather windy and wet. Good for the garden though and my cauliflowers.

The next few days are going to be the tough ones as we say good-bye to Mumo on Tuesday before she is laid to rest at L’Horte. On behalf of all the Collins clan, I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful reminders of just how incredible our Mumo was. I only wish she’s told me where she kept the spare sewing machine needles…

“Say not in grief that she is no more, but say in thankfulness that she was” ( Hebrew proverb)

Pure class

At 10.45 am on Thursday 27th of February, our Mumo passed away. I wish I could say she was surrounded by her loved ones but she was in the hospital waiting for a scan when my big brother Simon was called with the news, typical, she never did like being fussed over. We knew the time was coming so it wasn’t a total shock but nevertheless, it still seems far too unreal. But, at least for the last few months, Mumo had had a constant supply of family members popping back and forth over oceans. Family was everything to our mum as were her friends, her Ipad only leaving her lap when it needed to be recharged. As so many have told me, she was the loveliest soul, adored by everybody. Stunningly beautiful on the inside and out.

She was born Janet Christina Collins (amusingly that was both maiden and married name which caused many a hiccup when dealing with officials) on April 15th 1939. In May 1964, she married Pop and the two produced us 4 kids and we gave them 7 grandkids, as Mumo was oft to say the latter were so much more interesting than her offspring. She and Pop travelled the world; first Sarawak then up through Indonesia and Hong Kong before Kenya, Thailand and New York. Her address book, she was never one for technological storage, was so full that she dreaded the yearly Christmas card list but always made sure each person was ticked off. I was looking through the stacks of photo albums yesterday for a suitable picture – there are so many memories of a life most would only dream about. Kenya was her favourite so that’s where the picture was taken kissing up to her darling Ringo.

Apart from her lyrical waxing about her unbelievably brilliant grandchildren, Mumo was a book lover, rarely seen without one in hand unless, as Simon put it, she was on her Ipad or asleep. Actually she usually dozed off with pages still open. As those who knew her would say, Mumo was a wise and patient listener even if she refused to admit to us kids that she was going deaf – apparently we just don’t enunciate properly. She was the epitome of a hostess, she loved a good party and could have conversations on any topic – something no doubt learnt from her years abroad with Pop. And she had class. Not born into it, no hers was entirely her own. She had opinions but never forced them on others, was always elegantly dressed even if it was to prune the roses at L’Horte and although if she admitted that she wasn’t fond of the task, was a pretty mean cook.

Oddly, considering she hated exercise of any kind, our mum managed to bring up two extremely active generations. I say two because for Simon’s and my ‘sprogs’, she and Pop pretty much did bring them up at L’Horte. It was Mumo who wanted a pool in the back garden here in Rouffiac- one she never got in because the very idea of swimming made her shiver. She was always cold, only taking her sweater off when the rest of us were melting in a heatwave. A hot water bottle was a must, Bong remembered that they once had to warm up a rock on a camping trip as someone had omitted to pack this necessity. She was the best wordsmith and crossword puzzle solver and got us all involved in the daily New York Times Spelling Bee. She was a pianist and loved classical music as long as it wasn’t too loud – Pop liked the stereo on max which caused many a raised eyebrow (she could raise them one at a time). She adored her pets, especially her beloved German Shepherd Chrissie who alongside Pop’s Gunner were the L’Horte dogs. She will be laid to rest at L’Horte next to her husband, our Pop, a man she once said to me had to ask her several times to marry him and she could never figure out what took her so long to say yes. Both of them surrounded by three German Shepherds (my Macgyver’s ashes are there too) in the spot above the river under the oak tree Moth planted.

For me, I’ve lost my best friend and most trusted confidante. I have been blessed to be able to share the last 4 and a bit years with Mumo ‘next door’ to me. I will miss our evening natters over the kitchen island, her sitting on her stool positioned so she’d have to reluctantly move when you wanted to open a drawer. I will miss the smile that greeted me each morning as she read the news on her Ipad on that damn stool whilst breakfasting on coffee and a muffin – a smile that was invariably followed by “what do you want for dinner tonight?”. Like everyone that knew her, there will be so much to miss – she was simply pure class. I shall leave you with one of her many many favourite quotes…

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” (Oscar Wilde)

Jan Collins April 15th 1939 – 27th February 2025

Busy boots

Apparently, I caused quite a few heads to turn earlier in the week. The sight of a 50-something blonde wearing torn jeans and work boots, running through the arrivals area in Toulouse airport was, according to Callum, quite a sight but I wasn’t half glad to leap into his arms. Poor thing probably didn’t need to be squeezed so hard, 20 plus hours in an aeroplane suffering from altitude sickness (the meds didn’t work this time) and feeling totally exhausted – all he wanted was a shower and his bed. But my gorgeous boy is home and after a decent rest, back doing what he does best – giving Mum hugs and stripping paint off the main staircase. The latter however, has now put him back under the covers having, I think, inhaled too much dust even with that Darth Vader like mask on. Or perhaps climbing up Bugerach – not my idea of a relaxing day out if you remember that blog.

Cal wasn’t the only one to return to the nest last week, my little brother Moth flew in from Kenya on Thursday. Now, suddenly the homestead is full of activity, the sound of sanders and drills mixed with an eclectic choice of radio tunes makes everything feel almost normal again. Denis said watching the four of us (Louis is still here) reminded him of a beehive, always on the move for something that needs doing. Considering how emotionally and physically draining the last months have been, getting back into busy mode is perfect therapy. So much so, I’ve finally put down the proverbial pen, having finished the latest draft of The Second Book and re-written a large chunk of The First – both will be soon off to a good friend in the publishing business to be polished for presentation. After four years of tap tapping away, I’m glad to see the back of the opuses for a while although part of me still wants to fiddle with them some more. It’s an annoying habit of mine, I can’t seem to stop and just put my feet up. Denis even installed my old TV ( a bit on the small side he thinks) in my lounge so I could watch the French news channels (important for one who is applying for citizenship at the end of the year) but I the only time I stand still long enough to watch it is with my morning coffee. And I only have so much concentration which is required when attempting to understand politics in any language. Callum tells me such twitchiness is just one of my many ‘quirks’ but he loves me anyway. Over dinner with friends the other night, I was asked what I did to relax. I run I replied.

I box too although we’ve needed to move my heavy punching bag out of the room downstairs that Mumo is using as the nurses kept having to dodge around it. For now, it’s hanging in the alcove below me which is spacious enough, if not a little cold. At least it’s in a covered area and out of the wind that is currently pestering us but I’m not used to kicking and sparring with quite so many clothes on let alone trainers. I don’t know if the restlessness inside me will ever abate but as long as I’ve got something on my feet and they’re moving- I’m as close to relaxation as I can get. And a bloody beautiful boy to smother…

“A bee is never as busy as it seems; it’s just that it can’t buzz any slower.” ( Kin Hubbard)

Furry moonbeams and ruffled feathers

“Can you see the moon?” my sister Bong asked me as we drove back from Toulouse airport on Monday evening. I did remind her that I was in control of a moving vehicle in rush hour so best keep my eyes straight ahead but I did take the occasional glance. I did get a much better view up on my terrace after dinner – the Wolf Moon in all its glorious orbness. And, being of the superstitious sort, I Googled. Apparently such lunes signify ‘renewal, emotional depth and balance inviting us to reconnect with our inner strength, reflect on our past and set intentions for the future’. Considering I spent the first half of the week doing a passable impression of an ostrich – head in the ground and kicking out at everyone and the second half, as Denis put it, resembling a hyperactive magpie (the comment directed more at my white shirt tails under a black jumper), I haven’t done very well in the spiritual growth department.

I suppose part of the reason for my waxing and wanings is having family here. Don’t get me wrong, I adore them but when you’re used to only seeing your sibs during occasional holiday visits and you’ve gotten used to it just being you and your mum, it’s difficult to well, share. Selfish I know so I’ve had to slap myself a few times. Suddenly there is someone else doing the grocery shop, something I’ve always done and the daily task of organising the washing is no longer mine. I am no longer in charge of the cooking however, a merciful blessing as is being able to get on with my list of things yet unfinished without having to worry about who’s looking in on our Mumo. Ergo, the change from big bird in a hole to a busy oiseau.

On the subject of avians, the cold snap we were promised was just that so their garden feeders have been well-stocked. Mind you, the icy temperatures have disappeared as quickly as they plunged and my towels are currently drying out in the abnormally warm winter sun. Naturally, being that it is still January, most of the garden is in shadow by mid-afternoon but that hasn’t stopped big brother Simon from trawling his bench across the acreage to catch whatever rays are still available.

And speaking of rays, Arry was back having laser treatment again at the vet on Tuesday. My idiot Shepherd reignited the injury in his front right leg, no doubt as a result of hurtling himself across the frozen ground chasing deer on our morning runs. The dog doc suggested we try hydrotherapy in his next session to which I informed her that I have had a lot of experience with Arry and aquatics so she might want to wear ear protection. He may be short in the brain cell department and missing any gear between Park and 5th but when you need a few moonbeams, he and the other woofers are right there. Usually hogging the bed but always there. And family. All the inner strength you need. Right here in Rouffiac…

“In time of test, family is best.” (Burmese Proverb)

Where there’s light

When I said I took down all the Christmas decorations in the apartment last week, I lied. Frankly, the sight of fairy lights twinkling away over the lounge doors does stem the blues a bit. I could blame the weather – I’m English after all but it’s Mumo. She isn’t feeling so hot right now and I’ve had to message Callum. He’s flying out week after next. A new year and so much to do yet sometimes I just think, what’s the point.

Mind you, on the plus side, my darling nephew Louis has decided to stay put for a little longer. Seeing pictures of England covered in snow might have something to do with his decision. Having Lou here is the best pick-me-up as, apart from his hilariously bad one-liners, he’s got on with finishing the staircase in the remis – the one we nicked from L’Horte a few years back. Naturally I can’t help but get my two centimes in so I’ve shifted my terrace furniture down there even if, according to my nephew, it’ll clutter the space up. Gotta sit somewhere young man. And speaking of places to park one’s derrière, having him and brother Simon here has given me the chance to potter around in my workshop and switch off from my troubles for a few hours. I’ve even thrown off the pessimistic pashmina and started redesigning the apartment living area although putting my new shelving unit together last night without the manual’s ‘two people’ instruction – Alice’s attempts to hide the nuts and bolts aside, was not exactly calming. And one of the shelves is missing holes for the screws, either that or I’ve stuck the wrong bits together. Experience tells me which.

Now, the weather report. Wacky. I was driving around town in sunglasses and 19 degrees on Friday then yesterday Simon was standing over a barbecue in the pouring rain and today I’m looking out at gorgeous sunshine in full winter clothing. Apparently we are heading for an icy snap in the coming days, I wouldn’t mind so much but all the rose bushes have started flowering and my sister arrives tomorrow – she’ll probably think it’s summer judging by New York temperatures right now. Still, as long as there’s sunshine, there’s always work to be done and that keeps this girl looking forwards. Oh, and we’ve got a man coming about the pool liner on Wednesday…

“Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy” (Leo Buscaglia)

And there you have it

And there you have it. With the bins over-flowing because I didn’t check the holiday schedule and the chaos of another Collins Christmas dinner their main contributor, the house is calm and clean once again. Well, not entirely. Big brother Simon is still in residence along with wife Alba and his three offspring bringing the patter of stomping feet and shoes abandoned in the hallway – an armoury no ankle can avoid. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not just because I love having my niece and nephews here what with all the constant chatter and endless plates of food that I haven’t had to cook but also because I’ve been able to let the reins go and recharge the batteries. I even managed to find whole afternoons to play in the workshop and sort out what to put in my new toolbox that Denis gave me – many a raised eyebrow in his direction over the piles of discarded wrapping paper but he always knows what makes his girl happy. Better yet, Callum called me on Christmas morning, the best present a Mum could receive although maybe not his thoughts on staying in Oz for the foreseeable future.

As for me, the only think I’m looking towards is dumping 2024 in what little space remains in the poubelles outside the gate – the non-recyclable ones. Mind you, with the gorgeous weather we are under at the moment, you’d be hard pressed not to feel those positive vibes stirring the soul. The sunrises that greet you on the early morning run are breath-taking but not half as magical as trekking up Pic de Bugerach yesterday. Located about 28 kilometres away from here, the mountain is the highest peak in the Massif des Corbières lying in foot of the Pyrenees and known for its apparent mystical powers. I can’t say anything odd flowed through me other than fear hiking up its rocky outer face what with the narrow paths lining cliff edges and my poor choice of bootwear. I would like to say it was another proud moment for me to get to the top but I didn’t quite make it – the last stage of the climb got me and I ended up hugging a large boulder trying not to look up, down or sideways. Eventually, thanks to a lot of gentle cajoling from nephew Louis and niece Kate, I slid inelegantly to safer ground below but still high enough to take in the horizon. I add in peace and quiet but I’d brought Arry, Alice and Sherman with us – Arry spent the entire day out on hyper-speed, nearly knocking most of the other walkers off piste so to speak. At least the journey home was blissfully silent unlike the car ride going there which had Arry and Alice shrieking at full volume and me nearly bursting a blood vessel and having wobbled their way up the staircase into the apartment, the three of them passed out not to be seen until this morning.

And there we have it. Just a few more days and we’ll be ringing in 2025. To all, have a great knees-up and I hope the New Year brings you sunshine and roses. For many of us, it will be a time to remember those we have lost over the past 12 months as well. I’d like to give a special mention to my friend Georgie whose husband Iain passed away suddenly just before Christmas. Iain was a good friend to both me and Tony, his unwavering kindness, sharp one-liners and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm never to be forgotten. So, let’s raise a glass or three to seeing the back end of 2024 and to blue skies ahead. And new pool liners…

“I don’t know where I’m going from here but I promise it won’t be boring” (David Bowie)

Sweet Dreams my little Bear

I know I’m a little late in writing what was supposed to be written on Sunday but a little after midday yesterday, Yogi Bear slipped away peacefully in my arms. He waited until I came home from holiday to say his farewell. To say I’m heartbroken is too simple a phrase – I’m just numb.

He wasn’t just any dog. In fact, according to Yogi Bear, he wasn’t a dog at all – he was a Norfolk Bear. Yes, he might have looked like a terrier but only a petit ours could have the depth of thought and empathy (I once wrote that in his bio) that he had. His capacity to just love without expectation or reward was his gift – he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Actually he had very few teeth either and spent most of his last years with his tongue permanently hanging out of the left side of his mouth. If you saw him strutting around the garden from the back, you’d be forgiven for the assumption that a wild animal was passing through but when he turned around, that lop-sided grin would melt the iciest of souls.

From the day I went off to ‘look’ at a litter of Norfolk Terriers and consequently emptied my wallet, I was sunk. Tony too and Callum. I named him Yogi Bear on sight, he had a spectacularly rounded tum and inhaled treats like a Labrador who’d been on a diet. But it was ability to just love that captured our hearts – he wore his on his paw. In the last days of Tony’s illness, Yogi rarely left his Master’s bedside, choosing to lie on the floor at the end of the bed with a look that no Disney film could re-create. After Tony died in my arms, my initial reaction was to find my little Bear – he’d been placed in the other bedroom when the emergency crew arrived. I remember just hauling him into my arms when I found him, I needed him as much as he needed me. The experience gave Yogi a canine version of PTSD – he was terrified that another one of his humans would leave and when Callum left, he moped for days. Still managed to eat though – a Bear needs sustenance. He never cried or howled, just sat by the door with a woeful look on his face.

Yet, out of trauma and a move to a new country came a new love in Denis. You see, the Bear loved gardening or at least, watching his favourite people tending to plants so Denis became his new and bestest friend. He’d sit between D’s legs and silently manage the digging and pulling – a Bear would never criticise out loud. And despite his pot-bellied form, he was transformed in the water – swimming with the grace of an otter in the river at L’Horte, his tail thwacking back and forth like a rudder. Some of his best times were spent helping the kids grow up at L’Horte.

As for me, it is hard to explain just how much one little brown Bear meant. He was my cuddle bug wrapping himself around my chest like a teddy, he was my confidante listening to me rant on about all the unfairness whilst regarding me in a sagely fatherly sort of way. He taught me patience when he ambled up the stairs like a Sunday afternoon stroll when I was trying to make a deadline and no matter how hard your day was, a ‘woo woo’ greeting on opening the door left your troubles on the doormat. But above all, he taught me and all those who knew him, how to just love. No conditions attached…

Yogi Bear (Nordalset Gotta Be) May 5th 2010 – October 28th 2024. May you sleep once more at your Master’s feet. Je t’aimerais toujours.

I will leave you with a quote that says it all:

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” (Winnie the Pooh)

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